PATRICIA ANN JANE MILDRED SMITH DOUGHERTY: The Story of an Irish Mother Superior

In a few weeks, on October 14th, my mother would have turned 83. She died in 2011, a few weeks after her 78th birthday. Five years later, I thought I would share her story. This is a multi-part story, and I'll include some of my favorite pictures, including the first one. Mom and I had a difficult relationship at times, filled with arguments, disagreements, and love, and this picture showed me a side of her I'd never seen when she was alive. I hope you enjoy meeting her...with love, Doc

“The Irish mother had a reputation for ruling the family with an iron fist,
being the unquestioning transmitter of...Church authority.”
                                                                                                                  Monica, McGoldrick, Ethnicity and Family Therapy
 

She was known as Patsy, Pat, Smitty, Patricia, Mom, Grandma, and even Grandma-with-the-blond hair, though her hair was red most of her life. Her full name she would tell us, was Patricia Ann Jane Mildred Smith Dougherty. It was never entirely clear what was the middle name, what was the confirmation name, and where the extra one fit in, but it was all hers.
 
She was the third child and first daughter of William Claney Smith and Elizabeth Bracken Smith, born and raised an Irish Catholic in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Her oldest brother Bill (William Claney Smith, Jr.) was a lawyer who looked out for her whether she wanted him to or not. Her next brother, Donald, was known as Red for obvious reasons until he followed in his father’s footsteps and began to lose his hair, and he was one of her favorite dance partners. Her only sister, Helen, stayed close their entire lives, and for many years they were often mistaken for twins. To their children they were also known as the Yum-Yum Sisters, a name they earned for their enthusiastic response to every holiday meal. David was her third brother, also a favorite dance partner right up until she went into Vincentian, unable to dance any longer. The baby of the family, Milt, was also known as Sonny for many years, and was raised by Aunt Agnes and Uncle George when their mother Mildred died shortly after his birth.
 

She read Dale Carnegie, Malcolm X, and Dear Abby with equal fascination and curiosity. She was a teacher, a public relations and marketing whiz, a mother, a wife, a sister, a daughter, a grandmother, an aunt, and finally a great-grandmother. She was a devout Catholic, a Kennedy Democrat who in later years voted Republican, a child of World War II, a smoker for much of her life, and a devoted friend and family member. She loved dancing, the beach, good food, good clothes, her family and friends, the Catholic Church, travel, and good conversation.

She was an Irish Mother Superior, and this brief snapshot in words doesn’t begin to do her justice. Pat/Patsy/Smitty/Patricia was my mother, my teacher, my opponent, my heritage. As I rediscover and explore her through pictures, her own words, and my memories, I hope the essence of Mom will shine through and live again. She was the matriarch of our clan, and she lives on in all of us.

Carol Dougherty
December 2014

---

Early Training
 
Mom started an autobiography she called Please Don’t Tell My Kids, which she never managed to finish. Mic (my older sister) found it in Mom’s underwear drawer, read it, and then shared it with me. All of the stories were from her childhood and teenage years. Some we had heard at the family dinner table, others were closely guarded secrets. Like most kids, we knew our parents as well-behaved, law-abiding senior citizens who took any kind of mischief very seriously. After reading what there was of Mom’s autobiography, I was stunned to realize that my Donna Reed/June Cleaver-like mother was a female version of Tom Sawyer—lawless and game for any creative endeavor that might get her into trouble.
 
Her mother died when she was still  in grade school, and most of the stories I remember hearing were about her father.  Later, when I was working on a Family Systems paper at Naropa University, I realized that my mother’s mother was very much in the mold of the strong Irish matriarchal figure. Not only did she follow in her mother’s footsteps, but she also told me that at one time she thought her mother’s death was her fault. It wasn’t, of course, and she came to understand that as an adult, but it was a heavy burden for a young girl to carry.
 

Mom (center), her mother, and her sister Helen (left)

In some ways Mom’s father took over being mother as well as father. Her mother’s sister, Aunt Mary, helped out when she wasn’t playing bingo, but as she wrote in a newspaper remembrance of her dad,

...he never asked us to do anything he wouldn’t do himself. That included doing dinner dishes once a week...Even when he got up at 6:00 am, banked the furnace, drove to Youngstown to work, and returned at 6:30 that evening for dinner. If it was Friday night, it was his night for dishes...he didn’t know the meaning of the word chauvinism, as he cooked, cleaned, washed, ironed (even our little fancy dresses), sewed, and canned vegetables and fruit from our victory garden. He became so skilled in the domestic field, he could play cards all afternoon and serve turkey dinner to 28 guests the same night.
                                                                                                              Story published in Post-Gazette North, June 15, 1978

William Claney Smith, Sr., Mom, Donald Smith (brother)

Mom always tried to teach us to dance (unsuccessfully), and said she and her brothers used to dance all the time when they were growing up. Imagine our surprise when we read the rest of the story in her autobiography.
 
My first recollections of any kind of schooling is dancing school...my mother and father had great aspirations for me.  And their delight knew no bounds when they discovered at the tender age of four I was double jointed.  They immediately enrolled me in Peggy Neenan's School of Dance, and I was indoctrinated in the fine art of ballet, tap dance and acrobatics.  Since this was the great era of Shirley Temple, my mother went a bit further and had pictures taken of me at the local newspaper office for modeling. 

The truth was I had stage fright.  I could easily do all the tricks my teachers had taught me and know my routine for what was known in those days as a circumse or recital, but as soon as I got on stage I forgot everything and did anything that came to mind.  In fact I nearly had the piano player going crazy trying to figure out what I was up to.  And oh, my poor instructor standing in the wings trying to prompt me to a one handed handstand fell on deaf ears as far as I was concerned.

Uncle George...wanted me to perform for a Christmas party for his V.F.W. post.  The plans were for me to take a trolley over to their house right from school and to have dinner with them and then we were to proceed to the evening's festivities.  Well I did take the trolley, but...I got talking to one of the most interesting girls from the academy.  Mary Lou Simms was her name and her mother was the proprietor of the ice cream store at the foot of the school.  It seemed like an ideal time for Mary Lou and I to become better acquainted, especially since I had been trying to cultivate this friendship for quite some time.

I gave Mary Lou my undivided attention as I realized she could be a great asset to me in erasing the forty cents tab I had with her mother.  And who knows, if things progressed in the right manner, I may never have need of a charge account again.  Our conversation was flowing very smoothly and I assured my friend she was my kind of gal as I reluctantly departed from her.

It wasn't until I reached my relatives' house that I realized I had left my suitcase, with my costume in it, on the trolley.  There were a few frantic hours spent running all over Pittsburgh's car barns trying to locate it.  Even I was a bit upset, because my uncle had threatened me with having to go on in what my young son refers to as the bare negative. 

The suitcase was found and the show went on and Uncle George was so ecstatic with my performance he revealed to me that a talent scout was in the audience and wanted me to go to Hollywood.  But Uncle George had turned thumbs down on that deal as he, too, wanted me to grow up to be a lady.   
                                  From  PLEASE DON’T TELL MY KIDS


(Stay tuned for part 2 next Tuesday)

Note: I got an email from my Aunt Helen, Mom's only sister, with these additions/corrections:

Thought you might be interested to know that your mother's birth name was Patricia Ann Jane Smith. (Mildred was her confirmation name)  Like me, she was given two middle names, mine being Mildred Helen Pius. ( I was named for Pope Pius 11th)  My name was shortened to Helen after my mother's death because apparently it was a difficult reminder of the loss of my mother and too much for my dad to handle. I was 2 1/2 when she died and your mom was four years older than I.  Dave was 18 months and Milt was one day.  (Dec. 26, 1939)  My mother developed a blood clot and those days they did not how to treat or dissolve them. 
 
Also, the picture you labeled to be  my dad, your mom and Donald - actually is not brother Donald, but is my cousin, Charles Bond.  Also, the picture you show of your mom at the end of your first blog had something to do with the fact that she was a child model for Kaufmann's Dept. store.